


Message In a Bottle

by GraveCounselor



Series: Message In a Bottle [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Action, Adventure, Alien Invasion, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Drama, F/F, Fictional violence, First Person, M/M, Romance, Some light smut, Torture, cyberpunk drama, dirkjake - Freeform, jake english journal style, non-suburb au, sburb influenced environment, slowburn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-21
Updated: 2017-06-07
Packaged: 2018-11-03 03:07:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10958382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GraveCounselor/pseuds/GraveCounselor
Summary: FULLY REVISEDImagine a reality where the Alpha kids had never been split by hundreds of years, nor given any copies of SBurb.Dirk is raised by his Bro, and Roxy her Mom, Jane still has her dad but. Jake? Well, he's got his own issues to work out.This is a journal recounting the events of how Jake English moves from his isolated murder island and into the real world, a world that is much closer to his adventure films than he might actually like.





	1. See you on the other side.

**Author's Note:**

> Shout out to: Nachttour for proofreading the first and second chapters and to everyone in the Strilonde Discord chat for providing me with endless inspiration!

 

Message In A Bottle

 Chapter 1:

See you on the other side.

 

It was a night like any other when my life took a blind leap into unparalleled chaos. Which, is saying a lot when one considers my unorthodox upbringing.

I believe I was sitting alone in my room with the blankets drawn up over my hunched shoulders. The screen of my cobbled laptop casting pale orange light over my own complacent expression as well as those on the movie poster plastered walls behind me. It had been an obscure classics marathon kind of night; the first season of the Young Indiana Jones chronicles, then Valley of the Kings, followed by The Rocketeer. Or, things similar to that effect. Sahara was half way through it’s exhilarating eco-terrorism fueled plot when I dropped my crusty, trusty can opener off the edge of the short four poster bed. 

My hands were wrapped around a can of preserved peaches while my peepers poured over chiseled features and endless sands. Between breaths and absorbing the Eco-terrorism based drama my fingers dipped into the tin. I was careful not to cut my knuckles open on yet another container as I pulled out fist fulls of the sticky sweet syrup doused fruit and shoved it sloppily into my hunger hole. If memory serves correctly I savored the treat to the best of my impatient ability, for it was the last of it’s kind available to me. All others of its ilk had been scavenged by a younger more fussy version of yours truly; cursed with poor foresight.

I’d say the reward was befitting of the occasion. After all, it’s not every night a boy reaches the age of manhood. Only minuets past midnight I celebrated my big one eight ! And I was allowing myself some much needed RnR.

The air outside my cracked concrete home sat stagnant steamy and still that god forsaken night. The forest clearing that surrounded my quaint domed abode; typically acted as an echo chamber for the melancholy cries of insidious insects and animal abominations. Innumerable amounts of infectious pumpkin vines laced the arena of vegetation and acted as magnetizing curiosity to the things dwelling deep in the jungle beyond the fern wall. Day and night I would catch wind of their cries reverberating off splintering trunks, through the rusted pane of my perpetually open bedroom window. With window open I could be more keenly certain of when it was safe to journey forth for supplies. Of course, ambushes happened regardless of good listening skills, but a false security is better than nothing to lean on at all.

I did not care that it was a risk to keep my home open to the nefarious unknown. Not only is it depressing not to smell fresh air, but it is impossible to sleep in such a muggy climate without at least some form of ventilation. Besides! Preventing foxes from getting into the hen house’s what chicken wire and nails are for. Or, in some cases fishing net. Rudimentary as my solution was, I stand tribute as living proof that sometimes even the bare minimum is enough to survive. Former to the events of my eighteenth birth’s eve, it had almost always been tough going on the island.

The isle I used to live on was a moon shaped peninsula no longer than two kilometers wide, with a rotund sort of lumpy center that arched upwards into an active volcanic peak. In the center of the terra firmas queer crescent inlet was a giant slate gray pyramid made of steep vertical steps that were no fun to navigate in the rain. The weathered stones were stacked up from the bed of a wide circular inlet rimmed with the shelf of an ancient coral reef. These steps were not only convenient to my clambering in and out of the temple mouth,  but in fact they were a mighty old pedestal for (what I always assumed to be)a statue of a giant frog. 

The gargantuan stone amphibian was simplistic in its design and stared out unblinking towards the islands south sea. For reasons beyond my understanding, the structure within this frog temple had been fully stocked with crates upon crates of preserved goods. More than enough to hold me for well over a decade. I thank my lucky stars that I had been cut such a gracious boon by fate, for without those early resources, I doubt I would have made it as far as I have.

Lining the temple bay were shallow hills of wild grasses, sprinkled with the odd wildflower that stretched all the way to the south tip of the island. In itself it was almost a sort of micro grassland. However, the vast majority of the land was blanketed in thick light devouring jungle. Each tree’s trunk was so thick that the worlds tallest man could not hope to wrap his arms ‘round it! You might think this would make climbing them impossible, but the chunky notches in the bark had often lent themselves out as helpful hand holds to yours truly. Though I won't profess to be the most nimble climber, I will say I can do some pretty amazing things with a fang filled jaw breathing hot down my tail. 

In my childhood overseas I became an amazing sprinter- truly! From an outsiders perspective it must look like sprinting is my life's calling. On my better days agility came to me as if my feet had sprung wings. I’d be able to pass through woods and fields, to skip over the massive brackish lily-pads that made convenient stepping stones across the water to the temple. I never thought to time myself, essential skills are better measured in terms of how they perform and not what numerical values can be placed upon them.

I boast, but in reality climbing and sprinting are skills easily picked up when you’re regularly contending with a twenty foot long goat demon. A demon with big bloodshot eyes and the scaled muscular back end of a merman. This barnyard mutant was only one of the many vermin that plagued the riotous emerald hills of my island! Some more noteworthy among them were ten foot tall land crabs, tigers with snakes for tails, spiders as big as cattle and actual nesting griffins. I remember being told when I was younger that a dragon lived up in the cave nestled into the volcanic mountain side, though I’ve never ventured to find that out for myself.

I’m not an idiot, not when common sense can help it. For example, if I can’t squash an eight foot tarantula how in the blue fucking blazes am I going to wrangle a dragon?! Don’t get me wrong, I’m no lily livered wuss. In a perfect world I would have killed every last blasted varmint! It isn’t as if the motivation isn’t there. Had I the tools to do so, I would have gladly chopped down every last tree myself just to make my own life easier.

In fact, in the past I often fantasized of turning the hills into my own personal paradise. I had wanted a home with more than modest fixins, perhaps one with multiple floors on which to store artifacts from my eventual travels. A kitchen, a bathroom, a livingroom with a great hearth and a massive home theater somewhere on the upper levels, perhaps just underneath my bedroom. Of course my room would have to be at the very top of the tower. Anything less would be defensively absurd! Maybe in another life I could have made the place into a lush Shangri-la , worthy of only the most esteemed fellow hermit guests. I would’ve gladly challenged any up to the herculean task to do so, if only to see the bastard beasts burn.

So, I had all these abominations against nature running about. And how did I protect myself? Why, I’m glad you asked! In the chamber of my globular room I had amassed a pile of firearms and their mated ammo, picked from the modern ruins of a demolished building nearby. Having these salvaged guns and my wits as my only assets, left me with a limited supply of bullets, and an otherworldly conglomerate of ravenous tanks as rival tacticians. 

While there always has been a sizable stash of canned goods up in the temple, one could hardly call that a sustainable food source. Not to mention getting it from the temple back to my shelter was always a dozy of a chore, fraught with peril every step of the way.  Eventually I had to learned to ration food out to myself to prevent making too many trips. Though, it’s entirely possible that I learned the practice a little too late to make a difference in the eventual shortage of provisions.

I was motivated by scarcity to learn how to trap the small things. The patch of bright gourds around my home infested quite a large area of the forest, its bounty lured in all kinds of soup fillers. From great forest boars with their elephantine tusks and large floppy ears, to tiny pixie cattle with huge bug like eyes and wings so stunted it left one amazed at their ability to fly. I oft caught the affectionately named “fairy bulls” on accident and had to release them from my perfectly good traps. While delicious, they offered very little meat. That, and their sad brown eyes are perhaps one of the hardest things to look into while unloading your firearm. Killing them purposely was something I quickly deemed barbarous, as they were one of the only non-hostile species I ever encountered.

Even with it’s unpleasant company the island had been a picturesque little postcard in its prime. Of course in the way of all things, this morphed slowly as the years wore on. I had gotten taller, hair sprouted upon my chin and the climate grew sweltering. The islands decline began first with the death of its more sensitive flora. Water parched flowers browned and died off, and in the name of my heritage I somberly collected their seeds for replanting when the weather was fair. As the months cycled the seas became turbulent. During seasonal storms the water level came halfway up the hills and fields, eroding the bone dry shoreline to a wasteland of dirt and rock. In some places this exposed piping along the bay that seemed to be running from the temple and up towards the mountain. My best theory for their existence was that these remains came from god knows what ancient frog based society had struggled there before me. Perhaps they were geothermal in some way.

Little good came of this rhythm of drought and flooding, unless you count the trash that frequently washed up onshore as a silver lining. (At the very least it made scavenging for parts easier!) I began to collect pieces of societal detritus from the banks as I ran back and forth from home to temple. Most of it was just colourful plastic junk, but a few of the contemporary treasures were preserved enough to find themselves displayed on my walls. Mostly I looked for the rolls of plastic sealed movie posters and chunks of action figures. Childrens toys were not uncommon but  it was not uncommon that the paint would be chipped or the faces warped by the teeth of a curious sea creature.

I was never able to linger in collecting the societal scraps. As a result of the shifting ecosystem the animals became more aggressive, the trek from home to temple that much more treacherous. By the time my eighteenth rolled around I was hurting for the most meager of things. Bandages for one, clean clothes and shoes, bullets for my guns. I remember racing with a beat red face in the heat of the day, arm-fulls of rusty cans pillaged from my ancient amphibious grocer, the whole time praying I would reach my destination with all limbs attached. That I would not have to waste more bullets in self defense.

I say all this as if I was not enchanted by the absurdity of it all at times. Truly, I loved my island despite the disagreeable company of the native fauna. Oh I absolutely did. For all the grief it gave me; its infested forest, mysterious anuran ruins, and endless blue horizon, were the only things I could truly say existed. Everything else was something I had seen in a book, or on a screen. Reality was something I could experience first hand.

I count myself unfortunate to have known the island so long, for it became like an old friend to me. A total stranger who’s path turned polar, my own choices alienating me from them and theirs from me. My earliest memories are of awe at those giant immortal  trees stretching up into the heavens. Splashes of light breaking through the shamrock foliage to illuminate a book on my lap and grandma at my back, whose soft voice taught me the difference between what plants were edible and which were not. Everything around me used to be full of magic and wonder, my curiosity was boundless whilst tucked under her wing. It is unfortunate to have such wonder bittered by the passage of time.

I remember thinking; if only I could chop one of the great trees down, I could make some kind of sailboat. Or, maybe if I climbed to the top of the volcano I could see past the endless horizon just a bit more and discover some hidden land mass or a continent that had miraculously drifted closer overnight. Perhaps had I tried I would've been lucky enough to flag down a passing plane or a transport tanker on route to America. Of course, fantasy aside, I assumed the very notion of needing escape was silly. I wasn’t some kind of Robinson Crusoe cast away. I didn’t need rescue; for the island had always been my home, and above all, the island had been my protection from the unknown world beyond its shores.

At the very least I cannot say my life wasn’t exciting.

As I sat in my room spilling fruit preserve over my gaunt body it FINALLY became clear to me that such a still night should not be so eerily quiet. My ravenous neighbors were never considerate enough to keep the ruckus down for so much as a single film. Thus, I was propelled from my stained bed divot towards the window. My feet narrowly escaped the snare of overgrown vines booby trapping my bedroom floor, and as I peered out over the pumpkin patch my vexation only mounted.

Neither cicada chirp nor yowling prowler dared to make their voice known to the pale moonlit jungle, yet as I perched my specks onto my nose and turned my attention to the stars a presence did make itself known. Off in the pitch blanket of night I could make out a distant engine hum, a blinking set of red and white dots flickered on and off miles above me. And I gawked with open mouth. Astounded. Watching as the pilot lights of a bright red jet approached with purposeful intent, turned, and began to fly wide laps around the mountains glowing volcanic peak. As I clambered for my things and headed out the deadlocked door to my globe the distant engine chug of the giant metal wasp remained a nagging presence in my stifling world. Preparation for first contact was paramount and all plans for relaxation were tossed out like yesterdays news!

You can’t imagine the kind of reaction the thought of human interaction brings a man whos spent far too long in self perpetuated societal isolation. (Aside of the bubble of cinema of course!) My body was nervous and electric. Who had come to pay be a visit? Who could possibly know where I was, and come to me in such an eye-catching aircraft? I paced a small circle worrying myself with the puzzle it presented, settling at the conclusion that they weren’t trying to be subtle. It could be a research team or a rescue chopper. Or, something hostile.

With this on the mind I lept into frantic action and donned my battle equipment. First thing was first, my very best guns slipped into the holsters strapped tightly to my thighs- as I would have been a fool to expect polite company. Was I wrong to be so paranoid? Heavens no! The last voice to mention anything about possible visitors spoke about them as if they were certain to be invaders. Last thing I could remember hearing about mainland folk was that they were “Debasing thieves out to destroy the planet!” and while not remembering specifics, my imagination was suited up to run rampant in inventing worst case scenarios.

And invent them I did, brain traveling twice as fast as my feet could carry my awkward sun burnt frame from forest to field. The sound of my heart pounding in my ears had to compete with the industrial whir of powerful blades to be heard, and those blades only beat the air harder as I ran the southern path. I vaulted over root systems and swung off vines with only the goal of my destination in mind. It was easy to let my mind wander for I had run the acrobatic path long enough to know it like the back of my hand.

As yellowing grass began to peer through the gaps in the trunks the engine roar became deafening. Bare feet sticky with black mud, I watched from the dense line of jungle ferns as the slick red shape circled the field of my hideaway like a curious shark smelling blood. The herd of great stinking centaur scattered fretfully from the hills like never before and the thundering of powerful equine hooves became a distant concern. Long dry grass whipped back and forth violently as the crimson jet hovered downwards onto it.

This aircraft, it was some kind of weird high-tech helicopter jet hybrid. Dotted down the side of it’s sporty snout came a string of pearl like white window lights that went all the way back to the middle of its wings. The cockpit lights were shaped to points on the sides but domed upwards and outwards like an eye looking forwards. Propellers were built into its sharp angular wings to help it maneuver around in the air like a backwards fork shaped hovercraft. It really was a stunningly gorgeous, if not questionably phallic machine.

The skinny crimson body was held a good ten feet off the ground by a set of three sharp tripod legs, which not only unfolded seamlessly but sank into the ground a little ways to stay secure. It seemed like it had taken forever for those propellers to stop spinning, and all the while the sound of whirling blades played the sonic bongo on my eardrums. Helicopters were way louder than I had expected, seeing it in person was positively hair raising!  

“Hot socks!How’d a craft like that get HERE?”

My brain chirped, absorbed by the moment of awe as I held my hands over my ears, and grinned like I was tasting the joys of spring. I feel like the reaction was somewhat justified given that vehicles were foreign to me, not in concept, but in physical presence. Plus at the time I had assumed they couldn’t see me in the thick prickled underbrush from so far off. Who would’ve guessed that the heinous plane had built in heat sensors?

I was about 30 feet out from where the jet had touched down when the abused grass beneath it was illuminated by a bright growing ovoid, a door underneath its chassis opened up and a set of skinny steps poured down from the port like hole. This was closely followed by a thick black business loafers, and a pair of muscular legs wrapped in the pristine fabric of black dress pants. The blazer that was worn with this was sharp, dispassionately professional and bland, but clean. The face of this distant person was obscured by the lip of a handsome flat brimmed hat, and all of this classic business attire instantly took on a dated look when their gloved hands whipped out a tablet form the inner pocket of their broad shouldered coat. The bright red corners of the slab in those gloved hands gave off an alarming stoplight glow, while the body was a rounded near ivory platinum shell. The most curious part of the device perhaps was the single forked antenna sticking out the top of it, which left me pondering weather or not they really were researchers.

My first thought was that it was due time the Men In Black pay my isle of absurdities a visit! And the second came soon after as a twist of apprehension that tore down my spine like an icicle claw. I was slowly reeled back from my moment of bewilderment and back into the world of cloak and dagger. All at once I remembered the history of my kin, that my grandmother used to be quite the eccentric woman. She made her fair share of enemies over the years, and over said years none were quite as tenacious as her rival tycoons. Was I so wrong to think they might be my enemies as well? I held a hand to my ear and leaned into the thicket to strain for any evidence of intent, but the only noise I could hear at the time was the sound of my heart beat finally winning over the jets dead engine.

When at first I heard nothing I tossed that idea away promptly and impatiently, and my hands finally lowered to press into the ground so that I might lean a smidge closer. I expected some sort of boorish science jargon to come rolling from distant lips. I expected someone to step down from the ostentatious jet and join the tall dark stranger. I did not expect to hear my name.

“Jake English.”

At first it didn’t register. The sound bounced around inside my brain like a ricocheting bullet yet never fully sank into my thick noggin. I had become like a deer in the headlights. This strange serious woman, she was facing directly towards me with her hand held to her mouth, elevating her voice out like an impromptu megaphone.

“Jake English!”She cried out once more to toward the thicket, and I found the grease to unlock my rusted  joints.

I can’t tell you what unnatural force drew me forth from the underbrush that night. Every instinct fired off a flare of warning, I was so used to running. Perhaps it was that the week had been particularly devoid of gaiety- but my best theory is that I was just. __*Bored*__ of it all. The running and the hiding and the constant disquietude that came with a fear of people and teeth. I would have been a fool not to step forwards from the ferns intent to save myself. Besides, had I not faced it head on, surely it would have just meant YET ANOTHER chase through the woods. “I’m a man now!”I thought to myself, head inflated with a false sense of age acquired aptitude. “ This is my island, and I can handle a few guests!”

The thin green blades brushed cloying wet earth from my rough soles as I took on that endless approach. Grass tickled at my ankles and thick humid air made quiet breathing rough. The woman moved perhaps a few feet closer to meet me so that she was standing just in front of the jet's nose and as I approached it became much easier to see the markings upon her pleasant doll like visage. Running down her nose and across her upper jaw was the clear segmented image of of an emperor scorpion. Its claws were opened up just around the edges of her lips and insect arms bent at her thick cheekbones, while the tail ended at her brow line. She wore the makeup around her eyes in lieu of the scorpions smaller pin shaped legs. Her theatrical markings were only further accentuated by a base foundation of immaculate white face paint.

She stood stiffly and as I came into her shadow I watched a smile like a tincture of almond extract slip sweetly across her heart shaped lips. I walked a little more slowly with my hands open palmed and hovering over my holsters like a cowboy at high noon. I was five feet away from her when she raised a hand to me and motioned for me to stop.

“You are Jake English?”

I did nod, my lips slightly parted and mouth dry. I swallowed the lump in my throat and croaked.

“The one n’ only.”

I’m grateful for how often I used to talk to myself. While I may not have the been the most proficient at pronunciation, it worked out for the best. And she had seemed contented to find such a haggard looking feral young man with such a pleasant disposition. I opened my mouth to speak again, for my head was a tornado of inquisition, but her single raised finger convinced me to hold my tongue.

She folded her thick arms over her chest as if scolding me. One hand still held the glowing tablet.

“Put down your weapons Mr. English. Then we can talk.”

It was a tall request. I bristled at the thought, even five feet off I had already squared myself up against my potential opponent. Without my guns I stood some *really shitty* low percentage chance of victory, but I did not care to piddle with calculating such time consuming things. I then asked myself “ What CAN I do with my guns?” The six foot forever clown mountain could make it to me with only a single stilt legged step, then what? Undoubtedly, more of them watching on from the shuttle. How much damage could I do with a set of janky Berettas? With thin nervous hands I unstrapped the belt from around my waist, the holster straps fell from my thighs with little convincing. I stepped out of them and towards the intimidating suited fool.

Her arms unfolded.

“Thank you for your co-operation Mr. English. Is your grandmother still with us?”

Looking back on the chipper question it comes across as smug, but in that moment it only struck me as a reminder of my losses. I shook my head in response to her question.

“No, she. Passed on quite some years ago. But I can still help you in her stead I suppose. What do you need miss?”

As I stood in front of her her mouth turned down as if faced with mundane inconvenience. She began to poke away at her computing slab and I could see over the lip of it the likes of such wearisome things as pie charts and business info graphics and spreadsheets- things I could name but not at all comprehend. I’d never taken an interest in the likes of the bureaucratic world as I’d never had to. So… what came out of her mouth next didn’t make a lick of sense to me. Which, makes it even harder to relay what she said to me- to you!

I swear I will do my best. I am doing my best to recount everything accurately.

She turned the tablet towards me and showed me a set of scanned documents, long enough to tell they had been written in red and gold ink but not long enough to read them. I’m paraphrasing exactly what she said when I tell you she presented me with this grim fiscal reality;

“Your Grandmother left quite a mess in her wake when she closed down Skaia Industries, Mr. English. Her unpaid lawsuits for intelligence theft have stacked up over the years, and seeing as she is departed, her debt falls onto her next of kin. Which means you.

Do you know what the penalty fine is on avoided sums of owed money is?

I’ll tell you.

It’s enough to eat up everything she had put aside for you, and then some. ”

My head may not be a steel trap, I may not remember all the responsibilities that were loaded onto my frail shoulders that night, but I remember distinctly that whatever she said hit me like a ton of bricks to the gut. She snatched the technological slab from my sweaty palms while I stood slack jawed and nauseous. I had never known of my grandmothers nest egg, I wasn’t prepared to pay off such an insurmountable collective of zeros! I couldn’t fathom having quite that much of ANYTHING! Never mind losing it. I did my best to nod casually about it or say something witty yet relevant, but words failed me. Questions came pouring out my stammering mouth as my bottom lip quivered.

“I-I don’t. I’ve never heard of __any__  of this! Where-Where did this all- ****go****? What do you mean stole?! What does this have to do wit-” 

She actually had to raised her polite bell like voice to speak over me, mouth coy as she giggled. This part, I do remember a little better;

“ Hang on honey, I’m not done. I come to you as a representative of Crocker Corp, who is willing to drop some of the charges and allow you to work off the money that your name is indebted to. You have two options Mr. English,”

Then she turned the screen of her hand held device back towards me. I hesitated to grasp its cold metal edges back, but conceded like a shocked mouse of a man to get a closer look at the digital contract before me. I think there were close to five hundred pages worth of stipulations and subtext. I do remember signing something for liabilities and to prevent lawsuits, but I can’t tell you what all their rules consisted of- could YOU remember such a thing?

I was boggled by its absurdity!! IT WAS INCONCEIVEABLE! I spend all my life absorbed in fantasy of righteous action and the pondering of societies calling, of the good of human nature- and for what? To have contracts laid before me like flash cards written dead languages I could not hope to understand. Never before had I felt so out of my element. I flipped through the pages of the document trying to absorb all its rules while Maddame Knucke continued her practiced pitch.

“The contract you see before you outlines the terms of our offer. In short, we will take you back with us to our headquarter city in America. From there,you will be sheltered, fed, and paid for, while you work to pay off what you owe to the Crocker empire. There will be opportunities for free education as well as room for advancement within the company itself, should you prove a useful asset.”

I should never have dared to play devil's advocate, for when I asked her;

“And…. if I refuse?”

Her tranquil face turned to ice, statues would have held more warmth in their stony forms. Her hands folded neatly behind her. The scorpion's tail arched as her nose crinkled. I thought she might reach into her back pocket and pull a gun on me, for she looked upon me like one would a scuttling cockroach in a storeroom. Yet, her voice held the same pleasant chime.

“If you refuse, nothing will happen. Nothing, will ever happen to you,

This insignificant blip on the map you call home happens to be in the heart of the biggest trading dead zone on planet earth. And if statistics aren’t enough to convince you, perhaps this will. I have good word from the CEO herself,

You don’t get to leave without signing that contract. Keeping you confined to this island would adhere to laws of private imprisonment. Which, is one of many possible punishments for business fraud. It would be easy for the baroness to contract a section of her militia group to keep you here. In fact, they might like the vacation opportunity.

But you’ll never leave this island unless you sign that contract, Mr. English.” 

She didn’t have to rattle off the ways they could keep me confined to the island. In my mind's eye were rocky shorelines seamed with electric fence and gunmen in towers watching an increasingly desperate human become more animal as the days ticked on. I saw myself making attempts to cut through that fence only to be stopped by nautical mines or men with vicious dogs trained to target my very scent. My face was an open book that argued for my terror and her self-satisfaction. I knew she knew my dread by the return of the return of her Cheshire grin.

I could have puked. 

“Oh. Well. No pressure then.”

I could have handled it far better than I did, knowing then what I do now perhaps it would have been easier if I stayed. Or, maybe not. 

I’ve always had visions of grandeur for myself. My own grandmother fostered these thoughts in me when I was early on in my years, backed up my gilded dreams with her own sweet tales of triumph. Why should I aspire to be anything less than the very best me possible? Living under the roof of a legend leads one to lofty aspirations, and hearing that my bones might instead be tossed carelessly to the ether, that my name might never be repeated by the voice of another, left me comfortless.

The choice that I was offered was in the end, not a choice at all.

I couldn’t feel my body. I couldn’t feel my numb hand plucking the pen from hers and signing along the digital line in choppy cursive. She condescended me heavily as I passed back the tablet, and began to explain to me the conditions of what I could take with me.

“Thank you so much Mr. English! It’s nice to see you’re capable of making the right choices.

Now, you have half an hour before this shuttle leaves. Please, don’t bring any weapons or electronics that aren’t Crocker branded. It may not matter much to you, but seeing as the technology is stolen we wouldn’t want to risk compounding your debt further, would we?

Any basics you need will be provided to you shortly upon departure.”

I won’t bore you with the specifics of what fit into the travel bag she thrust into my arms. I couldn’t bring much. All my electronics had been Skaia Tec, all my clothes worn full of an array of holes. My duct tape MacGyvered laptop was not Crocker Tec nor was my chipped Skulltop. Abandoning my computers like that was like ripping a child from their security blanket in a way, for my dearly departed grandmother had been quite animate about me keeping one on me at all times. Having her technology protecting me was a tribute to believing she could care for me from beyond the grave, in some dumb pseudo spiritual sense. I felt naked as a baby bird without them, but I didn’t attempt to try and sneak anything aboard the plane. Risk VS reward was no fair contest.

I felt like a poltergeist as the light from the planes interior shone over my scuffed up skin, my eyes were blinded by the transition from night into blinding brilliance. By the wicked womans guidance I ascended the steep hovering steps to look upon a long rectangular room designed with red velvet cake in mind. The layout of the long luxury vehicle was like one big first class section with reclining white leather chairs on top of red suede carpet. Everything white had a glossy shine to it and the overall architecture of the room was severely lacking in sharp triangular or rectangular edges. Everything was rounded, neat and prim and circular, with an arching cathedral ceiling.

I could not become too distracted by my environment as I was pushed from my petrified state at the top of the steps and into one of the rounded armchairs near the front of the plane. An equally inhuman looking stewardess wearing big red hoop earnings and less intimidating polkadot face paint took my things and put them in the baggage compartment above my head, with the promise I could get them back after we had landed.  I was non-vocal and found myself capable of doing little more than nodding. Most of my focus was directed towards watching the strange steps outside fold back up and mesh into the floor. Thinking about anything was like swimming through molasses, it’s safe to say I was not all there at the time. All I wanted to do was run away again.

The suit clad woman, now known to me formally as “Madame Knuckle” seemed dismayed by my very presence in the decadent pastry interior.  As if anything I touched was doomed to be forever veneered in a layer of permanent dirt scuzz. From the front of the plane she had the stewardess bring out a tray of items and handed me a phone the size of my open palm. Its white platinum shell was much like that of her tablet, only with the Crocker brand fork bold and present on the very side of it. I’d never had a phone before that point of course and so was momentarily contented by its novelty. I turned it over in my hands while she spoke to the pilot, and clicked the button on the phones side to power it up. It was nice to have a distraction, or even to hold something solid and know it was mine.

When Knuckle returned she told me they needed to set up a plan for me immediately, however my name didn’t exist on any sort of physical or digital record. She sat down across from me as the engines outside began to purr, pulling registration forms and long documents from her bottomless briefcase.  And I just sat there and did what she said, a scared clueless child signing way his life, taking the path of least resistance so I could simply just exist. It was easy to listen. It would not have been easy to tackle my way past her, open the stairs back up, and flee for dear life back into the doomed woods.

My most closely held wish had been granted, one finger of the monkey's paw had curled. How could I bare to leave my home behind for the vast unknown? How could I leave solitude for a life toiling under the thumb of a corporate mogul for a debt that was not my own? My instincts continued to shout their warnings and I was powerless to do anything to silence the clamor between my ears. 

The engine was not as loud from inside the plane. Sometime between when Knuckle was setting up my employee ID and I was filling out the necessary papers for an immigrant visa, the plane took off. The feeling of moving quite so fast was a constant thrill and conflicted in a very confusing way with the stabbing ache in my heart. Yet, I wept openly as I watched a my island sink from view below me.  I could not stand the feeling of abandoning it, and looked on through blurry eyes at a speck of brown and green being consumed by black horizon and star speckled sky.

 After I had cried my eyes dry Madam Knuckle passed me a box of Kleenex and pressed some unseen switch. Plastic blinds rolled out and clinked as their panels interlocked over the windows, blocking the outside world from my view entirely. My puffy eyes squinted at her dubiously and she responded with the shake of her head and a huff ;

“So you won’t get distracted again, sweetie.”

Then we set up my phone. I didn’t know or care what most of the app baloney was about, I hardly paid attention as she explained only giving the smallest form of response and trying not to nod off. Most apps are built to be easy to use, it was insulting she thought that I needed any help in the first place.

As I logged into BettyBother for the very first time on my brand new device, a ping rang. Which was odd. I’d never used the program myself before, having heard it was a cesspool for malware, cookies, and spies. I had no reason to get notifications, for I was severely lacking in people to message in the first place. My brow scrunched up, I must’ve looked like a depressed caveman. I tapped the unmarked icon of the anonymous message with my thumb, doing my best just to look confused by the app itself as I did not want Miss Knuckle looking at my shit any more than she already had.

Being at my wits end, that single clipped sentence chilled me right through to my core. Written in black text with no identifiable address came the prophetic voice of the world before me.

****??: See you on the other side.** **


	2. Goodbye, Jake.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> FULLY REVISED 
> 
> After a too long plane ride and a change of clothes, Jake gears up to face the tumultuous world before him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to: Nachttour for proofreading the first and second chapters and to everyone in the Strilonde Discord chat for providing me with endless inspiration!

Message In A Bottle

 

Chapter 2:

Goodbye, Jake.

 

Have you ever walked into a room and felt yourself instantly insulted by its opulence? Because, looking at the bathroom of the Crocker Corperation's private jet was like spit in the eyes. A mans commode has no excuse to be so grandiose.

Were it not for the occasional jerk of turbulence I would not have known I was airborne at all. In every corner of the six by seven ft room stood a ostentatious golden Ionian pillar, their shimmering brassy yellow stood against stark white walls and decadent deep blood marble floor. The throne itself (also, of course, golden) was off in it’s own closet, complete with closing door and automatic air freshener. Whomever was able to pilot the space age bench hole would be able to brag that their shit did in-fact; __not__ stink. What struck me over all about the planes interior was the height of the ceilings. One would think to add a second floor of amenities rather than a buttressing ceiling that reached up into darkness. Florescent light reflected off of the pearlescent counter top and back into my aching skull. Gold light fixtures like crystal balls circled the square vanity and brought to mind scenes of divas painting themselves up for nightly cabaret. I, however, was nowhere energetic enough to live up to a diva image. 

Used to staying up until ungodly hours of the night, the jet-lag was only a minimal factor in my exhaustion.It was to me, absurd that simple contact with other people could strike me with such distress. Nevertheless I had convinced myself the weariness was physical. I had witnessed my own hands shake as if I’d narrowly escaped death himself, and felt the still present puffy heat around my tear stained eyes. My rough fingers pressed to the thickened bags and pulled down on them lightly in an attempt to smooth them out. There was little I could do about the dark circles, but I did clean the snot from my upper lip with an antibacterial tissue.The red of my sclera brought out the tone of  Fibrous tissues stained in shamrock green. These deep poison feathers strained inwards as the lights caused the holes in my face to contract. I was only taken from my state of absentminded gazing, when it became clear to me I wasn’t blinking. So, I blinked.

My bent arms were like lead pipes balanced blocks of gelatin as I realized I had not __really__  looked at myself for years. My face was not quite so round, my cragled nose was twisted to one side and skewed by the strife it had weathered. My teeth like tea stained ivory tombstones that had suffered an earthquake. The face that looked back at me I could not properly perceive as my own but as that of the person I was becoming, and as I tried to accept my own malformed visage I could not help but question if that was what growing up was supposed to be like.

 I must have stood there, one hand pressed to the counter top and the other feeling over features as if exploring alien terrain for a good ten minuets before It occurred to me that time was running thin.

I breathed deeply of the potpurri scented air and took to steeling myself in a hissing tone;

“Come on, nancy boy. Get a grip!”

I stung my own cheeks sharply with slaps and grabbed curled hand-fulls of fresh tap water from the clam shell sink bowl. I splashed cold water against the apples of my cheeks and shocked the heated skin with chill in an attempt to force some life back into my long mug. As hard as I tried to be ok with the great looming threat of it, I could not shake from my brain the fearsome knowledge that Madame Knuckle waited for me on the other side of the door. She had demanded I reveal my new uniform to her. She’d threatened to bust down said door if I took my time. Even now I can recall how she had held my arm a little too tightly, and patted my back with a slap to push me into the room like one might do to shoo off a grubby child.

“ No monkey business while you’re in there getting spruced up in there now, Mr.English. I’ll know if there’s anything missing.”

And she’d beamed in her serripticiously sunny way, pointing to both eyes then back at me. Somehow I knew better than to test her patience. I recognized that I could no longer be kind to myself, that I could not keep letting my baseless anxiety gobble up my reserves of brevity. I could not let my intrepid will be snatched from me as if it were a low hanging fruit on my branches. I told myself not to think so much about it all and after another splash of water it was time to get down to brass tax.

The architect had spared no expense in creating a floor to ceiling shower with the rich red tiles and provided ample space for stretching ones arms inside it. However the shower was intimidatingly complex for me to operate, so I stripped down and clambered up onto the counter top and ran the tap to fill my tiny shell shaped bathtub. After and awkward scrub in the sink I smelled deeply of artificial cheesecake scented hand soap. I dried myself off with one of the thick cotton towels and curiously whiffed under my arm to see if I’d finally be palatable to the good Madames sensibilities. It was nice to be free of my waifish veneer, but in the same breath it was a small sadness to find the islands rich dirt was no longer a part of my personal perfume.

Managing still to suck in a tear for home, I threw open the clean white box on the bench behind me and pulled out my new uniform. Each item was taken and appraised before it was put on, starting with the stiff white shirt. As I slipped the squared off buttons though their mated holes I appreciated the absence of stains and the softness of the thin white sleeves. In fact, most of the shirt was more comfortable than it looked; if you did not count the high collar that poked stringently into the bottom of my chin. The effect of strangulation was only flattered by the matte crimson bow tie I clipped behind my neck. I suppose they didn’t expect me to know how to tie one myself, and I’m embarrassed to say the assumption exaggerated nothing. I remember pulling at the bow round my hausse pipe in an attempt to get it to loosen, but the stubborn elastic refused to relent. For my lower half they had given me a clean pair of coal black shorts which came just above my knee. They weren’t perfectly fitted but the squeaky new leather belt I had cinched around my hips held them up well enough. As I slid fresh cotton socks over my rough feet, fibers caught on the cracked skin of my heel.

I could not help but think about what sort of unsympathetic despot would design a uniform so physically taxing to wear. Now I didn’t mind getting new clothes, even if I am more of a summer than an autumn and red makes my face look blotchy. My major complaint would’ve been that I looked nothing like myself. I looked like a total fuddy duddy, headed to choir practice from the sunless pit my catholic parents basement. Always one to look for a silver lining, I fixated on the safely enclosed feeling of my brand new shoes. Like most people I’d spent most of my life wearing shoes (hiking boots; to be exact) but had run out of properly fitting footwear at some point in my late adolescence. With the small privilege retrieved it was easy to feel human again. It wasn’t as freeing to walk around in, but I sure did feel like I might be ready for society to welcome me back with open arms.

Sort of like how the Madame was willing to greet me with her buff arms wide open.Like a steel trap her dense appendages embraced me, lifting me up off the floor. Of course, she had a great noticeable whiff of me to make certain I’d cleaned, first. I wheezed as my hands raised to pat her biceps and forced a smile that could only be replicated through fear of being crushed.

“ It’s so good to see you all cleaned up and out of those rags. Why, you almost look presentable. If not for the glasses you’d be marketable.

I guess we’ll just have to get you a new pair.”

She set me down and I stood akin to young Bambi on ice as she fussed about with my carefully manicured quaff, trying to slick it part way back using the water it still retained. I thanked her for the snide comment, choosing to ignore her vinegar. 

“It’s certainly an improvement! Thank you very much for these sweet new duds, Madame.”

“Why, think nothing of it. We have an image to maintain after all now, don’t we?”

Her red claws took hold of my hunching shoulders and pressed them back, her hand slipped under the chin of my down turned jaw and raised it. Just whose image would I be maintaining? Certainly not my own. On the best of days I wouldn’t be caught dead in such pedestrian garments but perhaps it went beyond me. Perhaps I was to put the wishes of my employer first and foremost. Knuckles eyes connected with mine, I blinked and I watched the sunbeams sucked from her smile. She appraised me like a block of unpolished marble and after an uncomfortably long inspection she nodded.

“Yes. It will do.”

When she released me and returned to her seat I remembered to breathe. My shoulders went back to hunching as best the collar allowed it. I hadn’t given my specs any thought, but as I looked back through the open bathroom door, I saw myself and I had to admit that they were out of place. Everything I wore was immaculate while the black frames of my glasses were askew, held together with tape and glue in a few key places. The deep scratch across the left eye lens mirrored a light trifecta of thin claw marks scarred down my cheek. I turned away wondering who would be paying for the new glasses.

I returned to my seat across from Knuckle and found myself holding a dewy cold glass of dark brown liquid without a word between the stewardess and myself. Its top fizzled like witches brew and ignited curiosity deep within my glum guts. Like a man stoking a spark ;cautiously I looked between Knuckles down-turned focused face and the back of the leaving stewardess. And while neither of them were looking I took my first gulp. It hadn’t been my intention to immediately spit the liquid back out, but all those tiny bubbles breaking on my tongue was a sensation so akin to pain that I didn’t know what to do with it.I spewed soda like a garden fountain directly onto the woman across from me. The sensation of sugar and carbonated fluid all at once was __much__  too much for me to handle. Immediately my hand slapped over my dripping lips, and I tried not to be distracted by the blissful sweet of it as I watched Knuckle deal with her soda splattered suit.

“S-sorry mam! It’s just, this is the weirdest thing I’ve ever put in my mouth. They made this too spicy I think! Your drink machine must be broken! Bet you anything that’s the case.”

I nodded as if I was assured, yet didn’t sound as certain as I wanted to. What a shitty idiot thing to say. That’s a horrible cover-up for saying“I’ve never had pop before!” I loathed my leaden tongue. My smile stuck stubbornly all the same as she shook out her handkerchief and used it to wipe down both herself, and the wet patch of carpet between us.

“The machine isn’t broken. You’re drinking __cola. The bubbles are supposed to be in it.__  Be polite and finish your glass, __you__ won’t get _ _hurt__ sweetie. I promise.”

I could hear the restraint against grinding her teeth as she spoke to me, and therefore pressed her no further with my gab. I clammed up and made strange faces as I wrestled with the perplexing effervescence of my beverage. I wasn’t sure if I hated or liked it at first, but as I got used to the tickling snapping spheres breaking over my palate I was able to appreciate notes of sour citrus and distilled vanilla.

There’s quite a few things you can do on a seven hour and upward flight, and apparently this snide gorgon needed to take advantage of the first half of that vacuum. Desperately. I at once suspected her of wanting to be rid of my company as quickly as possible, for I shared the same sentiment. From the pocket in her jacket Madame brought out her odd tablet and attached a set of straps and wires into its top slot , where the forked antenna had been screwed in. She sat across from me and pulled down the built in table from the wall. With a single pat on it’s polished plastic surface, she prompted.

“Roll up your sleeves and lay your arms out on the table, if you please. ”

I unbuttoned my cuffs, folded up the white shirt sloppily and laid my forearms down upon the ovular table she’d unfolded between us.Instead of the needle I expected, she unlocked the velcrow strips of straps and belts, and leaned forward. Bracelets lined with chilly foil circled my wrists, suction cup protrusions clamped onto my necks pulse points and my temples. A wide heavy belt encircled my chest. I did try to keep my questions contained, but I couldn’t help but ask; 

 “What’s all this for then?”

She began to snap the wire protrusions into place on the ports of my harmless restraints.

“You need to be assessed for where you’ll best fit in our work force. So, you sit pretty, try to relax, and I’m going to give you a list of questions. I want you to answer them as honestly and as quickly as possible.”

Ah. So it’s a lie detector test.

My brow scrunched up, my gaze cast to the interlocked blinds of the closed window to my left. Now, I remembered a few things about these tricky machines. If you truly believed the lie you were telling was the truth, if you only gave half truths and lied falsely- you could trick the machine. I did what I could to steady my breath and still my anxious heart, but calm was not to find me quite so easily.

Madame Knuckle snapped her fingers in front of my face, startling me and jolting my attention back to her as she sat down. What shitty rude way to distract a man when he was plotting! I tried to fight the pout of my lips as she straightened up and propped her tablet horizontally on the desk before her.

“Do try to pay attention, sweetie.”

She prattled on about the interview procedures “yes” or “no” format, saturating my brain in unnecessary information and long winded explanation without speaking of the tests consequence. It was frustrating to be told so little relevant information. I had never taken any kind of formal test prior to that, aside of movie trivia and questionnaires which rated me on scales and placed me into fantasy school houses or attempted to predict hypothetical elemental abilities. Now being tested meant something. I asked for a bit more time, perhaps after the plane landed, but Madame insisted I needed to do the test as soon as possible. Her urgency bearing down on me like a lead blanket, I exhaled. 

As they are wont to do, the test began.

“Is your name Jake English?”

“Yes.”

“Were you born December 1st 1995?”

“To my knowledge.”

She sighed, exasperated.

“Yes or no answers only __please__.”

“Sorry. Yes.”

I shrank back, tense smile fading. Why did she have to make such a stink? I was only being friendly.

“Would you consider yourself an upbeat and optimistic individual?”

“Yes.”

“Are you an extrovert?”

“Absolutely.”

She cast me the evil eye for my choice of diction and I shrugged. Technically, that was a yes.

God damn fussy stuffed shirt.

Then she hit me with some curious questions about prior work experience. What I was good at and bad at, if I could take charge in a stressful situation, what would I do if I saw someone steal. And I lied the whole test, or most of it. Giving honest info only where it suited what I assumed were its needs.I painted a picture of myself as the man I was in my mind, a capable charismatic everyman. A reliable pillar of stone to rely on, well socialized and witty, with tactile know how on how to remedy any mechanical hiccup or physical challenge they threw at me. I stacked the pressure on myself to perform without thinking of the effort in its execution.

I don’t know how long she interrogated me for but by the time she was done I caught dawn breaking through the thin plastic of the shutters, and as the snow white plastic turned cream it hit me that the sun had chased us a quarter of the way round the globe.

 “Golly. We must be a ways from the island by now…” I pondered, loud enough to get Knuckles attention. Madame however masterfully deflected my coy query and kept her eyes turned down to her task.Her long talons combed through and straightened out the wires methodically folding them into a figure eight pattern as she packed up the kit of wires.

“Jake, you’re such a good little gentleman. Thank you for being so cooperative. I’ll go calculate your results and be back before we land, but that’ll be all for now,”

She walked around my seat and pressed down on the reclining lever as she passed, the chair dropped out from behind my back and I fell reclined onto it. Relaxation was not a choice, it was a command.

“Get some rest, we’ll be landing in a few hours.”

So, I rested. The beastly paranoia inside me had running on empty for far too long. With no immediate tasks left to distract me, it was hard to argue with heavy eyelids. I found the nerve to catch some Z’s and curled around the pillow wordlessly provided to me. After all, there was nothing I could have done to safely escape. I didn’t know if we were over land or sea, or even that we were still on the same god damn planet. In such an unfamiliar setting it was easier to accept my captors truth as fact than it was to worry myself into a brand new tizzy, and it would be thanks to this spineless compliance that the remainder of the plane ride would be uneventful.Again, the plane ride was uneventful. My own personal issues do not account for what Knuckle or the airline crew did directly.

I curled up around the clean cotton pillow of half my body length, strapped into the thick clean cushion of the reclined passenger chair beneath me. Knuckle even wrapped me in a cozy soft synthetic blanket and kissed my forehead to send me off, this was less maternal than she might have liked. I could see her kiss as nothing less than an act from a modern Judas. I blame her unwanted smooch for the nightmare that plagued me, for when I dreamt, a dream came to me in which I was aggressed by the faceless ghost of my dearly departed guardian.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

In my dream the sky was as void of clouds, the sun shone unobstructed through the canopy above me as I walked along an old trail of the island. I had hardly made use of it, I had never bothered to keep the aggressive vegetation from consuming it. Yet, the stones would be unobstructed by earth or mud or leaves, swept clean as if time itself had neglected to pay a visit. As I scaled the short stairway up a steep embankment,  the path circled round a deep green garden of thick bushes, of which sprouted sweetly scented Oleander. Clover and Marjoram sprouted up between the light stone tiles as they reached their devastated  destination, a home on a hill without walls windows doors or roof. The former ivory foundation was scarred by broken white stone stained black and grey from the long gone tongues of flickering flame.

The path passed the slab of a doorstep, and passed onto a platform of heat cracked tiles that once made the first floor of a sky scraping home. As I walked forwards into the former entryway I entered into a large circular space, edged by grey stone walls, piles of hard ash sat as if in organized piles, some with plants growing from their tops. Wild Foxglove and Trumpet flowers amount them, harolded my entrance. Every step I took, the green encroached as a twisting mass of floral embellished vines, as walls flickered in and out of veiw, myself stepping over chunks of debris as I stepped closer to a four paneled window on the phantom wall before me.

The window grew to consume everything in front of me and everything behind me, and I found myself staring through the thin glass pane at the shadows between the trees. Figures flicked in and out between their trunks, hands and limbs, the flashes of unknown faces and identifiable teeth, and eyes, and claws and beaks. And from their great formless mass radiated an unshakeable feeling of woe. In my hands I felt the pain tremors of scuffed and bloody skin. In my chest I felt tight, my throat, my guts, my heart, clenched in an unwavering angry fist. Her fist.

She emerged like a hatched bird from the moving monster cauldron, hand raised and clenched tight, her back arched and her head held low, face pointed towards the ground. Her spine like that of an ancient dinosaur, with its uncanny spikes. I remember her floating in place, deep in the distant woods with her silver hair extended in all directions as if by electric static. Her pale mournful banshee howled at me, with throat raw and steeped in betrayal.

“What have you done? What, have you done??”

 I watched as her guts were opened by a trifecta of fatal perforations, some invisable instrument split her. Up and down her chest and stomach, her ribs spilled their thick black viscera as blood bubbled forth and down the front of her buttoned up lab coat. It came not slowly, but all at once, as if a scab like a dam had burst. Aghast by the sight, I wanted to answer. She deserved at least that. I stuttered to respond, mouth like a pitch clogged pipe I could not formulate an answer to appease her, or myself. And before I had the chance she lurched forward from the cloying green woods behind her and tore the new clothes from my body. Her long claws scratched up my scrawny arms and pulled deep lines into skin and scars. She called me traitor, she screeched it. And I cried back wordlessly, apologetically. I hadn’t meant to leave. I cried;

“It isn’t my choice! It wasn’t my choice!”

But she kept howling and scratching, till I was nothing but mash. Till the flint of her black wolfen nails had struck sparks against my exposed skull and ignited the two of us in a flashpoint of screams.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I awoke with a jolt, left abandoned to the smooth powerful hands that shook me from my slumber. Waking up was not much less of a nightmare, the air smelled thickly of ozone and the scorpion on Knuckles face looked arched to strike as she cast concern upon me. 

“Jake, Jake sweetie please stop making so much noise. I’m trying to file all your paperwork, you really want to inconvenience me when I’m doing a favor for you? I could let you do it yourself, if you’d rather.”

“N-no, no thank you ma'am, sorry!”

Her hands held tight to my shoulders when I wanted nothing more than to spring up and run away. Cold sweat soaked through the armpits of my white shirt. Miss Knuckle found this look most unflattering when she retreated back to her work. The towering lady picked up her suit jacket from its place draped over the back of her chair, and pulled it on. Her eyes focused on her fingers and she did up all eight buttons as she spoke.

“We’re landing in 20 minutes, could you __please__ take a moment to go fix yourself?”

I stood and with one hand to the wall for stability began to make my way back to the gregarious commode. Knuckle just kept right on going.

“I expect the media will be on the runway, Jake. They’re very excited to hear about Skaias heir apparent. Don’t disappoint them by looking sloppy when you come out of there!”

Knuckle then paused to tap some papers onto the table to straighten them out, making them easier to fit into her briefcase. I stood outside the bathroom door with my gaze cast over my shoulder to give her my shell shocked attention.

“Oh, Jake! Also? Mrs. Crocker drove out to pick you up. The baroness herself, has come all the way out to officially meet you. I don’t expect you’d want to disappoint her.”

This information preceded the longest twenty minutes of my young life. After dabbing down the sweaty creases of my new garb, I returned to my seat. Static silence hung between myself and the jet crew, thankfully as we reached city limits the windows opened up to reveal the metropolis below. I got up on my knees to look out the window and envelop myself in the mystery of the world below.

It was not like nature, the horizon was defined in hard edges and flat lines, in blinking towers. Street lights illuminated rigid pathways, angular rivers of red and gold rushed from one intersection to the next as people in cars flowed towards their destinations. Metropolis stretched its metal and glass skyscraper arms up to welcome me in my cherry red chariot of misfortune. The tip of the jet cut through steely grey smog. A smatter of snowflakes struck the multi-pane frost laced window of the plane, and I with my heart full of wonder, could not shake my head from the fantasy of the urban center at ground level. There would be theaters, stores filled to the brim with new books, bakerys with freshly made rolls wafting their scents out open windows. There would be hospitals, places I could go when injured. There would be police and paramedics and fire men, people who would protect me. My noodle was quite overwhelmed with the fascination that every single moving shape was a different person, or creature, or group, rushing about from place to place and living their own private stories.

A flight attendant pulled me down onto my bum by my belt and told me to sit proper as we made our descent. The sensation of going down was far more exhilarating than that of going up. I felt as if I was locked into an anxious fog by the time wheels hit tarmac, as if I was watching my body move from my seat and towards the unfolding door.

The good madame turned towards me with a smart white blazer in hand, and slipped it over my shoulders.

“This should help keep you warm till your interview is over. You’ll of course have to answer a few questions from the press, but we’ll make it short. Knowing how untrained you are…we shouldn’t stay too long.

Do try not to stick your whole foot in your mouth, honey.”

She smiled, sickly sweet. I gave only a nod and pushed my arms though the satin lined jacket.

December 2, 2013, the plane landed in Washington International Airport.

Armpits still uncomfortably wet from my trying to clean up I stepped down the first hovering step and out into the swirling flurry of the runway. At least I could blame the knocking of my knees on the fact they had me wearing fucking shorts in winter. With no tree line for miles around the wind came cutting through my snazzy impractical clothes. I had never known cold so stunning, and so total. It was by Knuckles guiding hand that I was led back down the steep gravity defying steps of the jet and onto the soggy red carpet that had been rolled out for our arrival. To our sides stood walls in the form of a media horde, so many people I could not hope to catch every face looking back at me. At the end of the parted human sea sat one of the longest stretch limos I’d seen in fiction or fantasy. Some kind of hummer hybrid, black with gold spinning wheels in the shape of dollar signs. I transfixed on this while Knuckle gripped my shoulder and made nice with all the camera wielding media men.

I rubbed my shoulders up and down with chill burnt hands while they fed me questions. Camera clicks caught my eyes at all the wrong bright angles, startling me and leaving my world distorted by a flash bang filter. I powered through it, teeth chattering. Whatever dweebish accent my isle had cursed me with became apparent as I answered a barrage of uncomfortable inquiry. 

The first circling vulture beckoned, microphone extended like a busker’s tin cup.

“Mr. English, on behalf of Washington State I’d like to welcome you to America! Now, how grateful are you to Crocker Corp for your rescue?”

“RESCUE? Sir I’d hardly-”

I was appalled anyone could call my abduction anything but what it was and found myself compelled to speak honestly.However, Knuckles talon tightened on my shoulder and I fought the urge to flinch. I had underestimated the durability of her fingernails, for their diamond sharp points could really dig through fabric and press into my skin. A pair of fingers in particular knew of a nasty pressure point. Begrudgingly I quieted, while she stepped in and answered for me.

“You’ll have to forgive him for not speaking eloquently. He’s been isolated his whole life you see. When we got there, we found no sign of anyone else, just this small skinny young man. All alone. Living in a broken room in the very heart of the jungle. Why, it’s surprising he can speak at all. Of course he’s grateful for this opportunity! Aren’t you, Mr. English?”

“Oh, YES mam. Just BRIMMING with gratitude. Who knows where I’d be if Madame here hadn’t swooped in on golden wings to liberate me.”

I could already tell I’d be paying for my faulty enthusiasm by the way she reached down to push my hair forcefully back from my face, the false shroud of proud motherhood upon her. My cheeks turned cherry from the abrasive wind.

I blinked snowflakes from my eyelashes. While Knuckle called out.

“Next question, please.”

“Mr. English! How is it that you came to be alone, what became of your Grandmother Lady English? The original heiress herself? Did something happen?”

Did something happen indeed. I laughed in quiet hysteric reaction and rubbed my cold hands together in front of me. In truth I don’t remember it all that clearly, and I try hard not to-but laughing was not the right reaction to give them.

The good madam stepped in immediately to coddle me, rubbing my free shoulder like a caring abbess as she spoke.

“There there. It’s ok honey,

From what our investigators have gathered, his grandmother actually disappeared twelve years ago without much of a trace. There have been reports of what remains of her wealth shifting between private accounts and being lent out to secret third parties. Some of our team even speculate she may still be alive.”

My squinting would have been clearer had I not been fighting off my eyeballs freezing. I butt in IMMEDIATELY. Cut deep by the insult of what this vile woman implied to the known world, I glowered.

“She didn’t abandon me.”

Knuckle gasped in a flippant way that coiled my hands into icy fists.

“No sweetie, of course not! It’s just a theory!”

Just a theory, but one that the scavengers went into a nose dive for. Numb as I was my itchy ears caught the sound of pens as they scratched parchment speedily, spurred on by blood in the water, by the drama of it all.

And I should have kept my mouth shut.

“No! NO! Absolutely not! There’s no theory!”

I growled and tore my shoulder from Knuckles grip. She feigned hurt while I stared her down bitterly, my lip curled. Indignation burst from my core, justice demanded I be true to my grandmother and maintain her good name. No matter what it cost me, I came clean. The crowd stood still, my voice barely a decibel above the howl of the wind.

“My grandmother was __killed__  by a monster and I cremated her. She died, and I watched her body burn.”

The paparazzi flooded in around me like a plague of ravenous blowflies with their lenses and their shouting, all order had gone out the window. The velvet rope could hold them back no longer, and burst at its pole like a poorly designed dam. Madame Knuckle grabbed me by my arm and tore me from the barrier of microphones and camcorders. Astounded by the frenzy, I followed.

She did not look happy.

“No more questions! That’s an unofficial statement, investigations of Miss.English’s whereabouts are still an open case!”

She dragged me down the sopping walkway, velvet ropes to my right and left kept the camera men and interviewers at bay as much as a shallow sea wall could hold back a hurricane. Their questions spilled over the sides and rattled my cage with increasing rashness. 

“Mr. English! How did she die?”

“ Mr. English what was it like to put your own family to rest that way??”

“Mr. English- did you kill her?”

Did I kill her. Did I KILL HER? I was six god damn years old how could I have- killed her? She was late on in her years to be fair, but there was no feasible way! It had been the beasts! Surely, it had to have been the beasts, no one else knew of our slice of paradise. And it can’t have been me.

Stubborn as I tried to be against their ghastly accusation, they planted in my mind a black seed of vicious doubt, for my memory never has been a crystal clear ball I could reflect on reliably. Did I kill her?

Did I?

Hastily Knuckle dragged me down the squishing, sopping red carpet, the reporters lapping our heels. Then, the back door to the hummer limo was pulled open for me by a dapper valet, his stretched visage painted like a crying art nouveau mime. Inside the vehicle was as dark as the crypt, no interior light but for that which came from the open door. From the shadows of the blacked out windows I witnessed a shaded curvy figure hidden further on inside, stretched over the seat as if lounging on a settee. She beckoned me on with a white gloved hand, a smile held in her playful tone.

“Jake, was it? How nice to make your acquaintance.

My buoy, you look so tired. Come in from the cold and sit down. ”

“T-thank you ma’am, p-pleasure’s mine.”

I cursed my cold and stuttering lips, whether the heat in my face came from frostbite or embarrassment I could not say.

How she could be so calm in the wake of the reporters I cannot say. It had shaken me enough I’d forgotten my meeting with the Baroness entirely. However as soon as I heard her I wanted so badly for her to be kind that I believed she was, and so took the gesture. I laid my hand over hers firmly. She sat up as she pulled me forward. I moved in, my weight set down on the ledge of the footstep which would lift me into the tall hummer. Only, the step I took didn’t take. Ice had built up over the traction pad and made locomotion in grip-less shoes akin to skating on grease. Her hand fell out from under my own inconspicuously and I was left holding a white glove with no support at all. I went down.

As I did the angle of my world shifted and flowed slow, the culmination of the past few hours stress having reached it’s peak. In my peripheral vision I caught a cat-like mirror reflection coming from the baronesses’ eyes in the dark. I caught a hand with bright pink nails obscuring itself back into the shadows.

Then my skull collided with the bulletproof car door and my world went black.

 

Revelations followed me like a stray dog I’d feed one too many scraps as I passed from one pair of hands and into the next. I would later discover another mystery message on my phone, one sent to me mere minutes after the accident.

 

****??: Goodbye, Jake.** **

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time putting out any homestuck fan fiction but I've been cultivating this story for quite a long time in private. Please let me know what you thought of my portrayal of Jake or any of the other characters.


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